All the Others
by Calatoria
Summary: In the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Beren remembers and waits to die.


Beren did not know how long it had been since Finrod had last drawn a breath. Hours, perhaps, or just a few minutes. The king lay very still, the pain of his final moments etched into his face, his clothing and hair and mouth stained with the wolf's blood as well as his own.

Finrod Felagund was dead; they were all dead, all because of him. And now, at last, he would die with them.

It would not be like the Bragollach, when he and the handful of survivors had been forced to retreat, fleeing without any thought for their fallen comrades. Beren had seen his uncle Bregolas cut down before his eyes, and had later been forced to tell his aunt and cousins why he had abandoned the body. He had blurted out the news of her brothers' deaths to his mother in a few spare moments as they hurried to strengthen the defense of their town as much as they could.

It would not be like back home, when he had watched as his mother and aunts and cousins departed their dying land, while he and the other warriors stubbornly remained behind when they should have protected their families. Emeldir was a formidable fighter, but she could not have defended them all, and though she armed the rest of them none of the others had her skill. He remembered saying goodbye to Morwen and telling her that if she looked after Rian for him (for Rian's mother Hanil had been lost in the confusion of the Bragollach, whether killed or captured they did not know), he would look after both their fathers. He had not even been able to keep that simple promise.

It would not be like Tarn Aeluin, when he had cheated death through sheer blind luck, spared by a scouting mission. Barahir hadn't wanted to send him out, not after Gorlim's disappearance, but someone needed to go and it was his turn. Later he had returned to their hidden camp to find everyone he had left in the world dead at his feet. He'd often wondered what would have happened if he had been there; would he have died defending his father? Attempting to carry a wounded Arthad to safety, as Hathaldir had clearly done? Beren's father, cousins, and best friend, all had fallen trying to protect each other while he wandered safe and ignorant through the forest, jumping at shadows. The only thing he could have done was to die avenging their deaths, and he had not even managed that.

He would no longer be trapped the endless night of the pit, chained helplessly to a wall as one by one his companions were dragged away to be tortured somewhere nearby, where their friends could hear them but could not see them. When it was his turn, he had wondered that they did not all break, how he had not - the visions of his family members, especially the ones he had abandoned to uncertain fates, had been worse than the pain. Wolves came for all of them eventually, devouring each one who had refused to yield. By the time one came for him, he had been almost too weak to move, and certainly too weak to hold back an elf whose body could bear hunger and torment far better than any mortal's. Perhaps without Beren to worry about, Finrod could have lasted long enough for help to come, or found some method of escape, but he was dead and Beren was not and it had all been for nothing.

He would not have to carry this last death on his conscience for long. Clumsily, his weary muscles protesting at the slightest movement, Beren lay down beside the king's body and waited to die.

The silent darkness was broken by a distant rumbling sound and a few faint flashes of light, but it was not enough to drag him out of the sunken well of his own thoughts. Some while later he heard movement above him, and something brushed against his arm. Had the wolves finally come to kill him? If they had, he knew he would not be able to fight them. All he could do now was lie here and wait to be torn apart like the others.

An image appeared among the shadows, growing slowly clearer. It was her face, bright and lovely, staring at him as though her heart were about to break. A dream, he thought, some illusion conjured up by his exhausted mind to comfort him in his final moments. It had to be; anything else would mean that she was here - the one person Beren loved who had escaped the death that he carried with him - and then all would be lost.

But no, it wasn't a dream. She reached out and touched his battered face, and he could feel her hand as she brushed a lock of matted hair out of his eyes. He sat up and tried to scramble away, fear driving the breath from his body like a blow to the chest. "No." The word came out hoarse and cracked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such despair.

When she saw that he was alive and awake, Luthien's face lit up with relief. "Love," she said quietly, reaching out and taking both his hands in hers, "it's alright. You're going to be alright."

"No. NO. Nothing is alright, not if you're here," he babbled. "You can't be here, you can't, they'll kill you, too..." She put her arms around him and held him as he wept brokenly, no longer quite sure who he was, or where he was, or what had happened to him. She was the only thing that was real.

When he awoke again from his stupor, the chains on his wrists and ankles were gone, and the pale light of dawn shone down upon his face. Where walls had stood there was now only rubble. Bones lay amid the rocks, picked clean by the wolves and scored with teethmarks, glowing in the weak light. Beren shivered, and looked away.

He spotted Luthien a few feet away, standing beside Finrod's body. She wore a simple blue dress and a dark cloak that she pulled tightly around herself to ward off the morning chill. Her hair was much shorter than it had been when he had seen her last; it just brushed her shoulders and was a bit uneven on the ends, as though she had cut it herself without a mirror. Her expression was different from any he had ever seen on her face, hard and cold and full of grief mixed with just a hint of triumph.

What had happened to her? She did not seem to be hurt, though there were dark circles under her eyes. Had she travelled here from Doriath alone? How had she found him? He tried to stand, but only managed to stagger a few steps before he collapsed, his legs weak from disuse and near-starvation.

Luthien was at his side in a moment, the strange expression replaced by concern and relief. He smiled at her as she helped him sit up, and managed to croak out, "Well, you've seen me at my worst yet again, and I have yet to see you looking less than stunning. Why does this always happen?"

Now it was her turn to cry, great gasping sobs that were part laugh, and she buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her hair awkwardly, cursing his shaking hands.

Something that felt like fur brushed the back of his neck, and he flinched, biting back a scream. Looking behind him, he saw that it was not a wolf, but Huan. After the initial flood of relief, it occurred to him how strange it was, Luthien rescuing him accompanied by Lord Celegorm's hound.

"I see you have some things to tell me," he said, looking from the dog to the girl in honest shock.

Luthien rubbed Huan's ears affectionately, then stood up. "Later. I want to bury him first." She gestured to the body that lay pale and bloody in the light of the rising sun.

"I'll help," said Beren, trying to stand again. This time Luthien caught him before he fell.

"Stay here and rest," she said. "I'll handle it."

"No," Beren insisted, leaning heavily on her arm to keep himself upright. "I need to help you bury him. Him and all the others." He pointed to the bones scattered amid the wreckage.

She looked at his face, stubbornly set and lined with pain, and sighed. "Fine," she said gently, and together they walked back towards the place where Finrod lay.


End file.
